Not the Time
by Nishy
Summary: For Glorfindel, some nights are hard. The last thing he wants to do is babysit.


A winter's night; I was in my window, glaring at the stars. Hurting and remembering too well, too well, standing in the open window and shivering and //still// feeling myself go up in flames. I wanted to go sink into the icy river, then, go down under and never resurface. One has days where the spirit is made of lead.  
  
My sanctuary was breached, my curtains drawn, a cloak thrown around me. Candles lit that I immediately snuffed out, furious at the insensitivity. Identical babes were pressed into my arms, whether I would or no. One cannot be too stubborn about holding infants, if only because they are so fragile.  
  
"This is not the time, Elrond," I hissed through my teeth, and tried to return the drowsy bundles.  
  
"Saes, Glorfindel, sen min lu. [Please, Glorfindel, this once.] Celebrian has been in Lorien showing them off for far too long, and they have had her all to themselves." A soft laugh, but I did not return his smile. "They are almost asleep; they will be no trouble." His face was earnest, but I suspected some concealed motive. Nursemaids were easily procured; surely he could see that the weight was heavy on me tonight? I could not believe he, a healer, did not see it.  
  
"Later. Tomorrow. Any time but--" Before I had spoken, he was gone in that way of his. The infants stirred fretfully, one small fist stretching out to grip my hair without any real conviction. I couldn't tell them apart any more than I could tell one leaf from another, but it didn't seem right to treat them as one. I made my best guess and my best effort, despite my distress.  
  
"Im Glor-fin-del, Elladan. That's my hair. It's where my name came from..."  
  
//Glorfindel! Adel lle! Rino heb!// [Behind you! Turn around!]  
  
A shudder of memory went through me fiercely, and the baby I'd dubbed Elrohir voiced a soft protest when I unintentionally clasped the two to my chest.  
  
"I remember..." I spoke again shakily. Simply because I've never been a father does not mean in all these ages I have not learned to put a child to sleep; a calm voice telling a tale is better even than a sleeping draught to the very young. A deep breath, and I started once more.  
  
"I remember your father's father; and his father before him. Long and long ago...Tuor came to Gondolin as the messenger of Ulmo. We were friends, he and I. In those days the world seemed so very bright."  
  
//Noro! Na Idril, na Earendil, bui noro! Darthathon a maethathon!// [Run! With Idril, with Earendil, you must run! I will stay and fight!]  
  
I squeezed my eyes closed against the echoes of my own voice. "He wed Idril, the daughter of the king. I remember it even now, the feast, the celebration. She was ever merry, always singing. We never expected..."  
  
//Men gweriannen. Bui drego.// [We are betrayed. It is necessary to flee.]  
  
A pause, before I pressed on. "I remember your father's father, a bright child. I wonder whether he would remember me...only his first seven years did I know him. By the time I returned, he was already--" I pulled the curtain open again, and pointed up into the night sky as best I could with two babes in my arms.  
  
Elrohir snuggled into my shoulder, pressing a tiny thumb into a tiny mouth; but Elladan's wide grey eyes seemed to follow where I pointed. I resisted the temptation to remove the small hand from my hair and make him wave to the skies, but only barely.  
  
Did Earendil remember me? He had been so young, just a child...  
  
//Glori! Glorfindel! Ada, alusig vin Glori!// [Father, don't leave our Glori!]  
  
A winter breeze raised goosebumps on my arms, and I drew the curtain again mindful of my small charges. Pray they would never know the blistering horror of a death by flame, or a night where nothing could cool a body that only still existed inside their minds; for these little ones, at the moment, warm and cold were no more than passing discomforts to either side of content.  
  
I moved back into the dark room, seated us in a comfortable chair by the unlit hearth. Elladan adjusted his grip on my hair before snuggling in against my shoulder like his brother had. I began again, pitching my voice low and soft now as they settled in my arms.  
  
"I remember your father--ever so full of dreams. This was one of them, you know, this valley. He looked at this forest in the dell and saw Imladris, before ever Elvish structure grew into the landscape. Your father made this haven where there was nothing. It is safe for weary travelers, even in difficult times."  
  
//Tirio, mellon-nin. Tirag?// [Look, my friend. Do you see it?]  
  
"Tiron [I see], Elrond," I murmured, responding aloud to the memory.  
  
The twins were asleep in my arms, and somewhere--so gradually that I barely noticed--invisible charring flames had been replaced by the gentle weight and heat of their small bodies. Somewhere in the spaces of the dark the echoes of old voices faded into the soft, synchronized breath of infants; my own lungs joined the quiet rhythm in slow moments of listening.  
  
And as the silence reverberated strangely off the walls, I realized I was cold, and drew up a blanket around us. 


End file.
